


Carrying the Sled

by Andriech



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andriech/pseuds/Andriech
Summary: With Sulu dying, will Chekov find the cure in the stories of his youth? Will he be willing to pay the price?





	1. Chapter 1

He was known to be a man of passion, whose smoldering dark eyes never betrayed the sudden onset of fits of temper or joy that could possess him. Sulu had commonly laughed at the assertion, replying that they had never glimpsed the true depth of emotion that was Pavel Chekov's soul. What they knew, the Helmsman maintained, were only the wild extremes of the man's Russian Motherland that were an intricate part of his personality. Their shipmates could not begin to imagine the true passion within the man.

Chekov supposed they knew this to be true now. Finally, they had seen the results of an all-consuming rage guided by the brilliance of the mind he had at his disposal. The wild coldness in his dark eyes had dredged up ancestral memories of Stalin's henchmen and Tsarist marauding Cossacks, and none of them would be hard pressed now to believe him capable of serial murder.

He had known this would happen at some point in his career: that he and the people around him would have to adjust to their knowledge of what he was capable of, given the right circumstances. He had entertained the notion that it would be much later on.

There were choices one made in life, however, and truths one based these choices on. A Starfleet career had been his life's goal: his focus now, earning a ship of his own. Even at his young age, however, he had the wisdom to know this was only a focus: it could not be life itself.

Chekov knew-with a depth he felt only a Russian could understand-that the universe was moved by truths which poets had grappled with for time immortal. These truths bound creation's living beings to each other and to history, and made the specifics of one actual life seemingly meaningless in the end. It was the understanding of these truths, he felt, on which one based life choices.

In this, he felt, there had been no choice: even if he'd had to reveal a part of himself that he'd rather have held in reserve. There was simply no reason that Sulu could not be here in his own bed, surrounded by his own things.

"Ouch!"

The Nurse stationed in the outer room peered around the corner suspiciously for an instant. It was Chekov's only concession to the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer.

Chekov winced in apology, shifting the finger's of his hands to kneed new areas of Sulu's right foot. He unobtrusively brushed off the flakes of dead skin from beneath his fingertips.

"You always said my plants would be the death of me," Sulu rasped good naturedly, making it known he had seen the action.

Chekov raised his dark eyes to Sulu's. He tried not to notice the greying pallor in the sunken cheeks.

"I meant the number of hours you were spending with them off duty." Not, Chekov thought, from a virus picked up by handling new specimens before they were beamed up through the transporter's bio-filters. The newly-named Caulis Virus was already too imbedded in Sulu's cells for the transporter to do more than alert the medics of its presence.

Chekov pushed the blankets upward and began massaging Sulu's shrunken calf. The Helmsman sighed in pleasure and buried his back further into his pillow. "You were just jealous of the plants, my friend.

"In all the years we've known each other," the older man continued, "I've never understood why you don't advertise this talent of yours. If you did," Sulu grinned, "your bedroom would be inundated with women."

"When women are in my bedroom, I am interested in other activities," Chekov observed.

Sulu laughed weakly. "Pavel," he said softly after a moment. "Pavel..."

The hesitation in the Navigator's fingers merely reflected the hesitation in his friend's voice. Chekov switched to the left leg. He knew what the man wanted to say, but couldn't. It was only in extraordinary situations that the Helmsman would even go that far in expressing his feelings. A self-proclaimed 'uptight Japanese-American', he had always been edgily tolerant of his Russian friend's effuse emotions.

"I know," Chekov responded.

"It's just...you're like a brother to me. More than Hosato."

"I know," the Navigator repeated.

"Bring me home," the older man urged. "Bring me home, Pavel Andrieivich."

Chekov stopped his methodical massaging, his eyes locked on Sulu's. Kirk intended a course to the nearest Federation installation when their mission was complete. That Sulu would survive the virus claiming more and more territory in his body until then, or that Chekov could change Kirk's decision, was doubtful. They both knew that.

"When I die," the Helmsman clarified, adjusting the thick, handmade quilt on his lap.

Chekov studied him. They were far beyond the need for posturing, for denying. There was too little time left now. The jazz music playing softly in the background filtered through his mind.

"To your Aunt's?" Her family were Sulu's only relatives left on Earth. His parents remained on the Space Station he grew up on: his brother and sister had lives among the stars as well. The younger man knew he was wrong even as he said it. Chekov's fingers tightened with emotion on Sulu's leg as he saw the man's face flush.

"To Papa," Sulu said, his dark eyes glassy and intense. "I want to go home to Papa. He won't mind?" he asked with sudden uncertainty.

Mind? Chekov considered. His father cherished this adoptive brother that Pavel had dragged home. The Navigator had warned Sulu that Russian families with traditional values absorbed their friends into them. He had warned the Helmsman that real Russians were simply more intense than most non-Russians were prepared for. The fact that the Sulu called Chekov's father 'Papa' was a testament to how well it had suited him in the end.

"Papa won't mind?" Sulu repeated.

"Don't be ridiculous," Chekov snarled, dropping his eyes and returning to his massage duties. "Burying a rotting corpse is just the type of maudlin occasion Russians live for. We'll recite Pushkin and get drunk for you."

"You'd better," the Helmsmen insisted. "Don't forget the balalyka music."

"Papa will play it himself."

They both smiled simultaneously, a soft expression of affection mirrored in their eyes, despite the fact that their gazes didn't meet. Their primitive understanding of each other had caused the occasional scattered rumor which used to bother Sulu, but none of that mattered now. It gave them what Kirk called 'the most uncanny reaction time in a helm/navigation team ever known to the fleet.' His observation had effectively quelled the rumors.

"You know, I thought I was going to kill you that first month at the Academy."

"I know."

Chekov's smile deepened as he began to work on Sulu's knee. As an incoming freshman, Chekov had been assigned junior Sulu as his 'big brother'. The random choice of a mentor by the computer had made them forced roommates for two years. Honestly, Chekov had purposely tormented the older man. Sulu had just made it too easy.

"Now where did you learn to give a massage like that?"

Chekov turned, eyes falling on McCoy standing at the room divider.

"My mother was a dancer," he confessed, turning back to pull the quilt back down over the Helmsman's legs and feet. Massage and romance were indelibly, permanently separated in the Navigator's mind. "I suppose this means it's time to go?"

McCoy nodded as he moved to the foot of the bed. "The Captain is be expecting us in the transporter room." The Doctor studied Sulu a moment before continuing.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" He had long since stopped asking how the man was. How could he be, after all, Chekov had pointed out. The virus had already laid waste to Sulu's body. Even if they found a cure now it was beyond modern medicine's ability to reclaim it: Sulu was dying.

Sulu shimmied downward in the bed. "No, I'm probably the best cared for hospice patient in existence. Rescuing me from Chekov will give me a chance to sleep. Read me some Russian fairy tales when you get back, Pavel?" he continued to his friend.

Chekov shot him an icy glare, understanding the unspoken, and long-standing, jibe at the Russian's lingering habit of falling asleep to tapes of his father's recitation of the tales. Sulu smiled brilliantly in response to Chekov's expected reaction: triumph in his eyes.

Sulu had done it again, the younger man thought sullenly. The Helmsman was able to use Chekov's wild emotions to trap him on a routine basis. When the Navigator had sufficiently recovered from his pout to meet the older man's eyes, however, he realized it had been an admonishment to stay safe.

Chekov already missed his best friend.

"No problem," he shrugged."We were invited, remember?"

Sulu made a sound of derision as he flattened himself on the bed.

"Invited as a subspecies," McCoy clarified as they got out into the corridor.

Chekov nodded. After the planet was identified as a technologically advanced world, Kirk had contacted them only to be brushed off by the main government as being too insignificant to deal with. Instead, they had been referred to some minor official that, they were told, regarded Earth as one of his hobbies.

Slavic Earth, to be exact, which is why Chekov was specifically chosen for this landing party. There were other Russians aboard, but none so thoroughly versed in their homeland's history and culture.

"This has made me reassess our attitude toward some of the cultures we approach," Chekov observed, the individual guilt he felt apparent in his quiet tone. "What is it you Americans say? The shoe is on the other foot now."

McCoy growled a murmur of uncomfortable agreement.

As they entered the transporter room, Kirk turned and nodded a greeting. "Thank-you for joining us, Mr. Chekov." _No matter how much you want to stay..._

The Navigator merely nodded in response and took his place on the rear of the platform. He had actually avoided the Captain after his on-going series of tirades. He knew that Kirk liked him personally. He knew as well that the Captain was pleased with his work and showed a certain amount of pride in the promise the Navigator showed as an officer. What Chekov knew more than that, however, was how important it was to him that the Captain he so respected felt that way. The Navigator had been too cowardly to face the disappointment with his behavior that he knew would fill the hazel eyes when they next met.

When the moment had inevitably come, however, it had not been disappointment he faced. Chekov had been startled by the respect he met in Kirk's eyes: the cold, unemotional respect one man earns from another. No longer was he the tolerated junior officer that had more talent and energy than both Kirk and Spock could harness. His willingness to brave the cost of loyalty to a friend had made him an equal bridge officer in the Captain's eyes. It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

As Chekov took his place on the transporter, he heard Kirk's mumbled words to the Doctor. "How is he, Bones?"

"Better than the rest of us. They've accepted it and are taking the time to say good-bye."

The Captain nodded and took his place on the transporter pad in front of Chekov. The Ensign kept his gaze fixed forward. He hadn't been meant to hear the exchange, but the room was impossibly small.

Transporters were an unsettling experience in the best of situations. Even when prepared, the effect of suddenly appearing in a different environment-every sense assaulted with new data-disturbed even the steadiest of human minds. Repeated journeys for the unsteadier ones could lead to a nearly permanent form of disassociative madness. Sometimes the possibility was downright obvious.

"Mr. Chekov!"

He started physically, realizing by the tone of the Captain's voice that it was not the first summons he'd issued.

"Yes, Sir," he acknowledged quickly, but he remained frozen in time and space, gripping the tricorder at his side the way the world about him gripped his very soul.

"Analysis, Ensign?" the Captain prompted further.

Chekov had served under Kirk long enough to know the need for him to ask had earned the Ensign no points with the Captain. The Navigator forced his eyes to sweep over the lush vegetation and dwellings. He recognized immediately the pattern of gardens, orchards and wooden buildings immediately in front of them. The complex was surrounded by scattered outlying roofs he could see in the distance. It was so alive and vibrant here...

"It's a seventeenth to nineteenth century Russian village, Captain," he said finally. His wording was not imprecise. His very cells were trembling with recognition. Somehow, he knew, this was not a reproduction: it was a Russian village. The technology evident in their scans of the planet was not here. "It even smells like Russia," he insisted.

"It's the fruit trees," Kirk reasoned.

"Yes," Chekov agreed, but knew his Captain was wrong. The cherry trees in Washington D.C. certainly made him homesick, but this was not homesickness. Somehow this was Russia. He felt it in his very cells.

"That's the manor house," he continued, straightening and trying to recall himself to his duty.

Kirk and McCoy turned to the large, two story wooden building Chekov indicated. The shutters adorning its glassless windows were splashes of elaborate color in Russian Baroque paintings.

"That's where the Tsar and his family lives. I assume he's our contact."

When Kirk and McCoy turned to him in surprise, he raised his eyebrows in a manner that would have made Spock proud if he were capable of such emotion. Sometimes Chekov was simply stunned at other's ignorance of Earth history.

"Every village had a Little Tsar who owned everything-the land and people," he asserted. "He governed the area. The Little Tsars, in turn, answered to the Tsar of all the Russia's. I don't know this man's position in the planetary government, but judging by the surroundings, that's his position in this village."

McCoy scowled at him and Chekov shrugged. "I'm not always wrong."

With a smile, the Captain gestured. "Gentlemen, we best go find our host."

Chekov hesitated as the others moved ahead, turning to stare into the greenery to his left. He had felt, rather than seen, the movement: a fluttering actually, if he had to describe it.

Staring with his body frozen, his eyes finally discerned the splash of brilliant color between the dense green leaves. His soul knew the impossible immediately.

He had stopped breathing. If asked, he would have swore his heart had stopped as well. As if sensing his absolute immobility, the creature silently shifted enough so that they could openly stare at each other.

He could not believe what he saw. Chekov recognized the wispy, delicate female immediately and resoundingly. Red hair-so fiery brilliant that it was blinding when it caught the sun-was the first indication that she was not human. The billowy long hair flowed downward and was absorbed seamlessly by her bright red caftan.

Large almond eyes, with iris's completely black in color, were the next indication she was not human. They dominated an oval face with a slender nose and enticing mouth. Her skin had a shimmering opulence to it: almost a metallic sheen that was betrayed when the light caught it.

Chekov could not have made anyone understand with words, but he knew she was the most captivatingly beautiful creature that ever existed. Every fiber of his being knew it. And he knew there was not a man in Russia who would have disagreed.

"Mr. Chekov?"

She started in fear at the sound of the Captain's voice. Her frightened eyes remained on Chekov, anchored on the one thing that she recognized as belonging there. It was more than a little unnerving. Her face wavered strangely and then was gone.

Chekov straightened, trying to steady himself. He didn't need any recitation of Starfleet regulations. He knew his obligations and duty to this team, to the Federation, to Starfleet: to his Captain. There was simply no doubt in his mind of what his required responsibility was at this point in time to the service to which he had pledged his life.

It wasn't the only responsibility that bound him, however. There were those truths that ruled the universe. There were the forces of which a human was merely particle: forces which made human insignificance startlingly apparent in moments like this. There were his obligations to the universe itself.

He did not think it strange that he rejoined the team silently, without a word of report or a qualm of remorse at his failure to his duty and his Captain. There were other obligations binding him here.

The man that greeted them inside the home's main hall was a tall, heavyset humanoid who was smiling effusely. He had a ruddy, freckled face and curiously pale yellow eyes that sparkled at them from beneath double-ridged eyebrows.

"Welcome, Captain Kirk!" He spoke an older version of Terran Standard, which implied a lapse in time since his last visit to their home world. "I'm Tiimeron, Territorial Governor," he said in what Chekov suspected was a pale translation of his actual political position.

"I insist you join us for dinner: we can talk then. It's our way. I won't take no for an answer," he concluded vehemently.

"That's very Russian of you," Chekov commented in an aside the man wasn't supposed to hear. His stiff glance back at the Navigator said he had. The young officer was becoming unnerved by the continuing thrum of recognition in his body. He had, as well, a growing sense of irritation at the sensation of being so far displaced and yet, of being home, in his Motherland...

The group moved forward between tables spread the length of the room and already filled with occupants. Some of the diners were clearly of the man's race, but many of them looked decidedly Terran and all were wearing old style Russian clothing. When they took their places at the head table, McCoy confirmed it.

"Jim, many of these people are from Earth," he said as he stared at his medical tricorder. "Or, at least their ancestors were."

That would explain, too, the group of cats and dogs lounging in the warmth of the room's great fireplace. Borzoi's, Chekov noted with irritation: the ugly dog illegal for anyone but a Tsar to own. _As if anyone else would want one of the hideous things..._

"You've created a Russian peasant village complete with Russian peasants," Chekov said aloud, using terminology foreign to him but which he knew his shipmates would better understand. "Why would they have left Russia and come with you?" _Why would anyone permanently leave Russia? _he pondered painfully. The tragic course of Russian history filtered through his mind as he tried to place the people around him at a spot concurrent with an emigration flood from his native land. Had all these people come at the same time, or had they all adapted to the time period offered to them?

"Yes," Tiimeron responded brightly as human servants passed plates of food among them. "I spent many years researching the villages to create one here. I took great care in making it authentic in every detail."

He also took pains not to answer Chekov's most burning question, the Ensign noted. Was this a case of alien abduction on a grand scale? Were these people even aware they didn't belong here after all these generations? The alternative was worse: were they still arriving? None of them seemed surprised that there were new humans in their midst.

"Captain," Chekov informed him as his eyes surveyed the room. "From their appearance, these people represent a period of Russian history before the reign of Peter the First. Peter forcefully changed the clothing styles in the Russian Empire from traditional to European almost overnight. Beards were so highly taxed, no one could afford to wear one anymore. Peter carried scissors to cut them off himself." There was no denying that these people's manner of dress showed no evidence of those changes.

"Piotir!" a man stopped behind Chekov and spit on the floor.

Turning, Chekov eyed him a moment before looking back at Kirk with a wry grin. "I think, perhaps, they left during the reign of Peter. His reforms were not met with enthusiasm by everyone." _Was it possible these were the same people who had originally been brought here? _he wondered incredulously.

"Peter the First–do you mean Peter the Great?" McCoy asked, his eyes narrowing in thought as he tried to clarify Russian history for himself.

A low growl emerged from Chekov's throat before he could stop it. He reigned his voice in professionally before answering. "_Thunderous_ is the accurate translation of the Russian phrase: not _Great_. Like thunder, Piotir was loud but his affect on the land was not necessarily all good."

"Didn't he build St. Petersburg?" McCoy demanded, knowing the Ensign loved the city.

"He designed it," the Navigator answered dryly. "The construction was done by the millions of peasants he forcefully relocated to erect the new capital in the swamp it lies on."

Hazel eyes regarded the young man warmly. "Boston, New York City, Washington D.C.–they were all built on swamps, Ensign."

"Yes, but the Americans didn't use their slave workman's bodies as landfill, Sir. St. Petersburg has..." he searched momentarily for a suitable word in their imprecise language. "Soul: because it is a graveyard."

"Not everyone here arrived at the same time," Tiimeron said pleasantly, seemingly oblivious to the debate that had started in his midst. Even so, his statement seemed to hide more than it revealed.

He continued without a breath: "Captain, based on the information you provided us, the Planetary Council has given you level three clearance. Tomorrow, you and your officers may have free access to my computers to upload any and all the information you choose within that parameter."

Kirk's hazel eyes held frozen on the man a long moment before he replied. "We frequently encounter less advanced cultures, so I understand your government's requirements he said carefully. I'm grateful for the accommodations made to us: I'll be eager to make use of them. I would like to request, as well, that Mr. Chekov here is allowed make a survey of the area himself: if that's alright with you."

"Oh, yes: feel free." The man threw out his arms to encompass the village in an imaginary circle. "My home is yours: wander at will, Mr. Chekov. It's only the computer's that contain things you may not be ready to know."

"Thank-you," the youngest officer responded quietly.

"Chekov?" Tiimeron continued, eyeing the Navigator studiously. "Your name is Slavic in origin. Would you have a Saint's name and Patronymic?"

"Yes, Sir: Pavel Andrieivich."

"And yet you're called Chekov?" he asked with mild surprise.

"Not in Russia."

"Ah, so you have adapted to another's culture."

"We seem to have something in common," the Navigator observed pointedly.

"We do," the man answered firmly, pale yellow eyes bright. "Which makes me wonder how a person in your position could possibly consider it worth the cost you've paid."

Soulful eyes darkening, the Navigator stared at their host in silence. "Whatever clothes you wear, I will still find no Tartar no matter how hard I claw," he finally stated. _Scratch a Russian, find a Tartar,_ the proverb went. Chekov used it to clearly indicate that, despite his adaptations, Tiimeron could never really be Russian.

Tiimeron grinned swiftly and shot a glance at Kirk. "Feisty, isn't he?"

Chekov glowered, but said nothing.

"Will we have access to medical information?" McCoy interjected impatiently.

Startled out of his sulk, the Navigator glanced at the Doctor. _More advanced technology...was there a chance?_

"Yes, of course: there won't be any security restrictions for any of our medical data. Would you like to meet with members of our medical staff as well?"

"Yes," the Doctor insisted. "It would be very helpful to be able to talk to some of your Doctors."

"I'll arrange that as well, then. Captain," Tiimeron continued with a smile, "I knew you Terrans would be dropping in any time now. Visits to your world became banned because you were becoming too technologically advanced. I am eager to catch up on modern Terran history."

"Alexsander the Second freed the serfs in Russia," Chekov muttered.

"I saw," their host replied with an oblivious smile. "And he convinced Abraham Lincoln to do the same two years later in the United States. They weren't popular acts in either country."

"We have always valued and fostered the expression of differing opinions," the Captain interjected quickly to maintain a diplomatic tone to their conversation.

Pale eyes shifted to Kirk, a calculating look in them as Tiimeron noted: "Yes. If I recall, both leaders were assassinated for their opinions.

"But we should continue this at a later time," he added immediately with a dramatic gesture. "Please: eat!"

McCoy leaned over to Chekov with a sidelong glance. "Alexander told Lincoln to free the slaves?" he rasped sourly before shoving a seasoned potato wedge in his mouth.

"Yes," the young Russian insisted, dark eyes fixed on Tiimeron soberly. In his homeland, such a philosophical debate over a meal would have been downright required for true hospitality. In truth, the young Navigator missed the roaring debates into early morning hours which Russian friends expected of each other. The touch of wistfulness caused him to instinctively bait the Enterprise's Doctor. "Russia did win the American Civil War, after all," he quipped.

Both Enterprise officers craned their necks around to peer at him incredulously.

"I had no idea," McCoy finally snarled. "Tell me: have they moved Russia to the northern or southern part of the United States?"

"Captain Kirk is a student of Abraham Lincoln," Chekov insisted indignantly. "HE certainly knows Alexsander the Second sent the entire Russian Navy to President Lincoln's assistance."

Sitting back, Kirk swallowed his food and muttered to his friend: "He did, Bones. Don't get Chekov started."

"You're the one who brought him!"


	2. Chapter 2

The food had even tasted Russian, Chekov mused as he lay in a rustic bed that night. It wasn't that the food had been made from recipes gathered among the peoples of the Russian Federation. The food actually carried the flavor of Russian soil. Each individual area of every planet imparted a different flavor to the plants it nourished and the meal he'd just ate tasted as though the vegetables had absorbed the nutrients that were unique to his Motherland's black earth.

The dwelling they were in wasn't actually authentic, the Navigator noted. The wooden ceiling he stared at had been milled by machinery. Their surroundings were a strange combination of real and reproduction. The trick was figuring out which was which: and why Tiimeron had gone to such lengths.

He sighed irritably. The late hours of mind-numbing diplomatic conversation and rich food seemed to have had no effect on the Doctor. It was not the first time Chekov had shared a room with McCoy, but it was the first time he regretted it bitterly. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer was a light sleeper: probably something to do with his job, but Chekov wanted him to sleep undisturbed tonight. Twice the Navigator eased himself up to a sitting position, only to have the Doctor spin in his blankets and mutter at him fiercely.

After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally able to step carefully out of the room without a reaction from his roommate. He quickly made his way through the darkened house and stopped to peer into the kitchen. Silently sneaking out of a manor house at night was second nature to him. The only real challenge to make it out into the garden unseen came from overzealous breakfast cooks: something to be expected when there were guests to be fed.

Chekov was lucky. The kitchen was still dark and empty, except for the several people who had climbed onto the oven's built-in shelf to sleep. As he passed them on his way into the garden he regretted that he couldn't do so himself. The luxury of the oven's heat was a prized sleeping spot: even at the height of summer.

Once outside, the Navigator was assaulted with the smell of Russia again. It was even more intense in the dark when his other senses could not be relied on. He moved past the swaying plants fillling the vegetable plots and in through the rustling leaves of the fruit trees in the orchards. The vegetation gleamed in surreal, reflected light from the dual moons suspended high in the sky.

He strolled leisurely, only casting an occasional glance into the branches of the trees he passed. Chekov had learned that searching for this woman was futile. You simply had to accept that she revealed herself when she wanted to. It was a bitter tasting lesson that he had learned late.

Frankly, he confessed to himself ruefully, his stubborn nature had never really conceded to the idea.

Chekov stopped when he came upon her deep in the cherry orchard. It was where he expected to find her: the woman was always partial to the bright, sweet fruit. His hours of failed searches among these orchards back home was probably why he loved the smell of their blossoms so much. She was sitting on the ground beneath one of the trees: her delicate, tapered fingers gently caressing the fur of a silver fox who stood beside her.

"I had thought, perhaps, that you were not coming," she cooed softly, an edge of sadness in the melody of her voice.

"You knew I had to," Chekov observed quietly. "I'm sorry I was delayed," he added truthfully.

"Ah," she trilled a confirmation, eyes bright as a soft smile played on her delicate lips. "You do know who I am."

"I recognized you immediately, Zharpesta." It was a stupid thing to say; he'd never seen her before. His soul, not his eyes, recognized her.

The fairytales of Russia were filled with stories of this woman and how she had swept across their land, inundating it with the wild and extraordinary beauty it was known for. His father's vivid word pictures from the telling of the tales swelled his imagination with visions of her.

Zharpesta looked exactly as Chekov had expected her to, shimmering with colors that were downright fluid in how vibrant they were. Her riveting, black eyes held him captive.

"What did your Captain say when you told him?"

"I didn't tell him."

She chirped approvingly with a shine of self-satisfied victory in her eyes. "You love me, Pavel Andrieivich."

Disgruntled, Chekov scowled and shifted with irritation. He purposely ignored the fact that she'd learned his name. "The lack of energy needed for such an assumption is beneath you. I'm male, I'm Russian: of course I love you."

How could the Navigator explain that to James Kirk? The notion was absurd–no matter how true it was. Males in Russia began searching for Zharpesta the moment they were physically able: sometimes before. They were often carried into the orchards by their older male relatives before they could even walk.

The men continued searching throughout their life, holding to a solemn confidence between them which was sealed by the desire–the _need_– to at least see the unobtainable vison of beauty. A veil of secrecy allowed them to pretend that the real women around them weren't aware of their clandestine activities or longings.

Since Chekov had seen her when they'd first arrived here, he had frantically searched for a way to explain to the Captain what he couldn't make sense of himself.

WHO, or more aptly, WHAT she was overshadowed the more obvious question of why they should encounter her here. It was not so odd that his very first landing party–when they had met the 'god' Apollo–kept coming back to the forefront of his mind.

_What is she doing here, so far away from Earth?_ he demanded of himself again. _And why has she so easily allowed me to see her? _

Humans had always represented a wild danger to everything this woman held dear and she protected herself from them with a vengeance that was blinding. Blatantly showing herself to Chekov meant putting herself into a precarious situation that must have required every bit of trust the woman could muster.

Others she had trusted in the past had betrayed her, but it was not in Chekov's nature. He had known of and loved her far too long, too intensely. She was clearly relying on that now.

_But why?_

Chekov began to suspect that everything around them–land and people–were a ruse specifically designed to trap this woman. Always able to escape such traps, if someone had succeeded in caging her all these years, than the landing party had beamed into dire peril.

"We can bring you back to Rhodina," Chekov urged in a hushed voice finally. "We can bring you home." He, of all people, had found Zharpesta. Chekov had found her here, of all places, and he, of all people, would bring her back to Rhodina. The thought of his planned heroics was downright dizzying.

Long lashes fluttered over her large eyes repeatedly and she trilled in sublime superiority. "_You_?"

She interrupted his visions of parades with a biting tone. "Did you mean that you will bring all my companions back, or were you just saying that only I would be welcome back?"

Chekov's face became ghost-white and he stilled, her words clutching at the very pit of his soul.

"_We_?" he repeated breathlessly. "_Companions?_ By companions you mean...?" Chekov clamped his jaw shut. He couldn't say such a thing. His heart was pounding so loud, he couldn't even hear himself think such a thing.

She was obviously not referring to the humans in this place. Russia's wild lands were filled with unseen occupants, if one was to believe common lore. The fairytales of his childhood were filled with accounts not only of this woman, but with a whole myriad of other creatures that, like her, were elusive and yet frighteningly ever-present.

The vivid images of them came filtering through the Navigator's mind. Domovoi, the house spirit; Dvorovoi, the yard spirit; Leshii, the forest spirit; Ved'ma, the farm spirit; Polevoi, the meadow spirit; Ruslaki, the water spirit; Bannik, the bathhouse spirit; Baba Yaga, D'yed Moroz; Cherti...

The existence of the Russian spirits was an accepted fact in Russia–just as Santa Claus was an accepted fact elsewhere. Everyone knew the stories and encouraged their children to believe them, but no one actually left Christmas gift-giving to D'yed Moroz and his daughter.

Still, the creatures' presence crept into daily conversations. Unstored, leftover food was being left out for the Domovoii and the bathhouses closed at night: supposedly to meet the demands for sole use by the Baniik. A whole host of spirits could be credited for forcing humans to be respectful to each other and Chekov had never heard anyone in his homeland admit to getting lost: the spirits were always to blame.

Rural people who lived with deep connections to their wild land, like Chekov had in his youth, had more than a few suspicions that the stories were actually true. Chekov had grown up with more suspicions than most. His father collected, recorded and taught folktales from around the world.

The problem in Russia was that people knew where the spirits' favorite haunts were but never knew what to expect of them. Yes, Zharpesta made things beautiful, Baba Yaga stole off badly behaved children, Rushlaka drowned men who wandered by water alone, and Cherti rescued children from abusive parents.

On the whole, however, there was no telling what reaction the spirits may have on any given encounter with a human. They could be helpful and pleasant, or they may torment you because they thought it funny or were ill tempered that day. The Russian spirits were wildly, dangerously unpredictable.

The Navigator's hand edged instinctively for the phaser that he wasn't carrying. His dark eyes swept the world as he felt completely exposed suddenly. Although they lived apart from the general population of the land, it had never occurred to Pavel Chekov to consider them as a unit before. He realized that she was telling him that they were all one species, and that they had traveled here together.

_Good God, they're real...!_

_They're real and they're all here...all around...everywhere...in control...all of them here. _He shivered despite the warm night air.

The woman chortled softly at his visible reaction. "Even after all this time, humans still believe they are the only sentient species that ever lived on Terra," she confirmed dismally. "I'd hoped you'd grown more introspective as a species."

"They're all here," he said aloud, straightening his back and clearing his throat as he did so. It did very little to quiet his pounding heart.

Glancing down at the fox she still petted, the woman's long, curled lashes fluttered again before she looked up through them at him: amusement tugging at the corners of her petite mouth. She laughed lightly at him, an airy sound that he found enchanting. "All here, Pavel Andrieivich.

"I see," she continued, stretching her neck with a bitter flutter. "You only meant to take me back. You don't want them."

Chekov stared at her, feeling both desperate and ashamed. He knew she saw the horror he couldn't chase from gripping his dark eyes. Of course everyone in Russia would eagerly and enthusiastically welcome Zharpesta back. The others, however... His face flushed on behalf of all his people.

"You see," Zharpesta cooed softly. "You don't want all of us."

Chekov stared at her, an overwhelming sadness overtaking him as he understood. "I thought perhaps you had been abducted. You aren't being held against your will."

"No."

"Zharpesta, what are you doing here? Why did abandon us?" Chekov demanded indignantly then, the bright moonlight shining in his intense, dark eyes.

"Abandon you?" She seemed genuinely surprised and her eyes regarded him with warm amusement. "In all this time, who noticed that we left? You may have looked, but you never expected to find me: and you were glad to never encounter my companions."

"We never stopped looking for you," Chekov protested hotly. "Never..." He clamped his jaw shut again, his face growing sullen. He knew what she said was true.

"Why did you leave?"

She shook her head then, sending ripples of light down the length of her thick hair and fixed him with unkind eyes. "My people and yours lived together in peace once, Pavel Andrieivich. The Earth was a wide world which was large enough to meet both our needs.

"Than the Earth grew small. Human arrogance closed in the horizons and left no room for our needs. Even knowing about us became a liability. We couldn't live under those circumstances."

"So you left the Motherland?" he blurted out bitterly.

"Tiimeron offered us what we wanted, and dignity besides."

"Zharpesta, how could you, of all people, leave Rhodina to the whims of nature?"

She made a cackle of disapproval, shaking the length of her hair again. "Has Rhodina suffered so without me? Did you think my touch was so fleeting?" she chided him then. "That the flowers, the fruit and vegetables would fade after I had given them such glory?"

"We still looked for you," Chekov muttered sullenly. Only the spirits weren't in Russia: not anymore. Bannik had never been there to placate. Neither had Domovoii that Chekov had fed so often, or any of the others that he had enjoyed entertaining as a child. They simply were not there. "You were never there."

She cocked her head to the side and fixed him with her huge almond eyes. Her delicate lips skittered with sublime amusement. "I wasn't?"

"No. You were here," he said morosely, digging the toe of his boot into the familiar black soil that he now knew had been imported from his homeland. "This isn't Russia." And he wasn't Grand Duke Ivan riding up on a white horse to rescue her.

"Ivan?" he asked suddenly as the image came to his mind. "Where is he? Did Grand Duke Ivan come with you?"

She hunched forward, balancing on her toes and curling her arms about her body. "You must go," she cooed softly. "The Doctor will find you gone when he wakes."

"He's going to know anyway," Chekov muttered with a sinking feeling as she recalled him to the Starfleet team he accompanied. McCoy had been giving him daily exams every morning for the last two weeks. _Some nonsense about not eating enough... _

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked as he turned to leave.

Chekov hesitated, his eyes on her shimmering skin and entrancing features for a moment. "No," he replied.

She laughed deliciously. "I thought you were in love with me all these years."

"I was," Chekov agreed with smouldering, dark eyes. "Zharpesta, visions of you have filled my dreams for as long as I can remember," he explained quietly. "But if I get what I always wanted now, than I will lose everything I have always had.

"I couldn't bear that."

Her eyelids fluttered again, shielding an obvious sadness that overtook them. "Than I am sorry for both of us."

The woman's form wavered: the brilliant red hair shimmering into a fluttering, golden-edged river that overtook her essence. She shifted elegantly, gracefully stretching herself out and taking flight.

Chekov stood silently and watched the Firebird until her vibrant form disappeared into the anonymity of the night sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Chekov had left his bed linens twisted in an unkempt, tangled mess. It was against his nature, and he'd purposefully created the jumble so that McCoy would believe the Navigator had only gone in search of a bathroom if he awoke before the younger man's return. With a quick glance at the still sleeping Doctor, Chekov made the bed now and took a moment to straighten his clothing. The distinct advantage to wearing a uniform was that no one would be able to tell that he hadn't changed.

Fresh morning air now filled the small room, the gentle breeze wafting through the paneless window opening cut into the outer wooden wall. Sunshine edged its way tentatively around the shutters that were closed against the light's intrusion. Chekov moved over and gingerly let his fingers touch the brilliant colors painted on the rough hewn wood. The wild pattern of primary colors was familiar as everything here seemed to be.

He pushed the shutters open and back against the house then, letting their beauty touch the world outside. On the rough sill rested a solitary apple. Its crisp skin shone in the morning sun with an inviting, welcoming gleam.

Chekov picked up the fruit, the cool surface tingling against his skin. He quickly swallowed the sudden onrush of saliva that filled his mouth. The Navigator didn't remember apples ever having been so inviting: so outright irresistible. Of course, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually held a real apple. Life aboard a starship had its disadvantages.

Chekov leaned back against the window's edge and held up the ripe fruit, twisting and turning it so that his eyes could watch the light play on its brilliant surface. Several things occurred to Chekov at once then.

It was illegal in Russia to eat an apple before the Apple Harvest Festival. Such an ancient and ridiculous law was virtually unknown to most of the population now, of course but it was probably still on the books.

The traditional people Chekov grew up among paid little heed to the legality of it either. To them eating an apple before the Harvest Festival was a taboo that none of them would dream of breaking. Their cultural taboos had kept their communities in balance with the spirits and world around them for centuries and they enforced them with the iron might of the entire population. Even now, the Navigator wouldn't eat an apple during Earth's spring and early summer months.

Chekov knew full well when the Apple Harvest Festival was in Russia–it was two days after his birthday: August eighteenth. He had no idea what today's date on this planet was–or even if the Apple Harvest Festival was celebrated on the same date.

Was this a test to see if he was really Russian? Was this a trap to give the local population an excuse to attack–even eliminate–the Enterprise landing party? He raised the apple to eye level, his jaw hardening as he stared at it.

Then again, there was only one apple. Maybe it had been left for McCoy, a 23rd century man who had no notion of such silly laws and traditions.

Chekov bit into the fruit fiercely: the loud, crisp snap as satisfying as the notion that he was purposely breaking tradition and ignoring the spirits. He hoped they knew it. Chekov took another huge bite. The sound woke up the Doctor and the Navigator chewed shamefacedly, wiping the escaping saliva from his mouth as the older man sat up.

McCoy gathered the blankets around his legs sleepily. "Where'd you get that?" Ordinarily, there would have been a irritated edge to his tone, but he was not awake enough to affect the emotion.

"Just laying around," Chekov mumbled through another mouthful. "You told me to eat more."

"There's not enough food in the known galaxy," the Doctor mumbled ill-humoredly as he stretched his cramped shoulders. "Your appetite is fine. It's your metabolism that's high," he admitted.

"So do you have a plan to slow my metabolism?" the Navigator asked with mild curiosity.

"Yes," McCoy pronounced. "I'm going to do the sensible thing and wait until you're thirty. It'll slow down naturally. By the time you're forty you'll be fat like your father probably is."

Chekov stared blankly and politely at the Doctor, chewing silently.

McCoy's face soured in understanding. "Please don't tell me how thin your father is: and do tell me there's indoor plumbing in this house."

The Navigator grinned happily and gave him directions. By the time the Doctor had returned, Chekov had thrown the core out the window and was eagerly sucking the sweet remnants off his sticky fingers.

"That's disgusting, Ensign."

"When was the last time you had fresh fruit?" he replied amiably with a shrug.

McCoy's steel blue eyes bore into him. "There doesn't seem to be a shortage of it here."

"Than you'll have to get used to my bad manners, Sir."

"Are you two planning to spend all day in bed?" Kirk asked, leaning his head into the room.

"Absolutely not," the Doctor rasped. "Breakfast smells delicious. And who knows," he added with a piercing glance at the Navigator. "They may have fresh fruit."

"We have a great deal of work ahead of us today," the Captain reminded him. "We'd better get going."


	4. Chapter 4

When Chekov had finished giving his report that afternoon, Kirk didn't look up from what he was doing.

"Are you sure?" the Captain asked.

"Absolutely, Sir."

The man nodded in thought for a moment, then leaned back to consider the metal bucket at his feet. "Would you like to finish this, Ensign?"

"No, Sir," the younger man replied emphatically.

Curiosity creased Kirk's forehead. "Mr. Chekov, you grew up in a rural Russian village: miking a cow by hand must be second nature to you."

"You misunderstand, Captain," the Navigator said evenly. "Russian peasant villages are basic communal societies. Some tasks require everyone's effort, but otherwise individuals do that they're best at so the entire community benefits from each person's unique talents."

Kirk pointed to the bucket again.

"Sir," Chekov insisted. "I milked a cow–once. It was decided that it was not to the mutual benefit of the cow, me or the community."

Amusement bubbled into the man's hazel eyes, a smirk crossing his lips. "What did they decide was to the mutual benefit of both you and the community?" the Captain inquired as he stood and carefully moved both the bucket and stool, then released the animal.

"Captain," the Navigator reminded him heavily as he quickly scrambled back out of the animal's way. "They sent me to space."

Kirk laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. "Ensign, we both know full well that space exploration wasn't meant as any form of banishment for you: you're too good at what you do."

He strolled out of the barn and stopped outside, letting himself bask in the feeling of the sun on his face for a moment. He considered its touch cool for the height of the summer this region of the planet was displaying. He was comparing it to Iowa, though: not the arctic country where Chekov was born and raised.

His eyes swept slowly over the landscape around them. "You're sure that all of this: people, animal life, plant life–even the soil itself, has been transplanted from Earth?"

"Yes, Sir," Chekov repeated. "I have no doubt about it."

"Humans were moved here, so there had to be people living on Earth when all this was moved. How did Tiimeron manage that without it being noticed?" Kirk wondered aloud. "Without the humans who were present protesting, resisting, or at least recording it? The transplanted soil alone would have taken eons for it to be attributed to erosion."

The Navigator allowed his eyes to follow the Captain's gaze over their surroundings. "Perhaps it was noted, but we have never interpreted the notations correctly," he suggested. "We base our interpretations on known scientific and historical facts. Lake Baikal is the largest lake on Earth."

"And alien removal of the lake bed never came up in the question of how it formed," the Captain concluded.

"Not that I'm aware of, Sir."

Lines furrowed their way out from the Captain's hazel eyes. "Ensign, I've come to consider Tiimeron's fascination with Russia to be a dangerous personality trait. Why would anyone carry an obsession this far?"

"It reminds me of an old Russian proverb."

Kirk shot him a warning glance.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" McCoy asked as he approached. "Which proverb?"

Kirk glared at his friend, but Chekov seemed not to notice.

"In Russia it is said 'Idiots don't play chess'."

"Well, that was enlightening." McCoy muttered.

"He means there's a method to the man's madness," Kirk clarified, shifting his jaw in thought. "I agree. This is more than a simple terrarium or zoo. What possible reason would Tiimeron have for duplicating a country that the decedents of his abducted population wouldn't even remember?"

"Jim," the Doctor interjected. "These aren't descendants."

The Captain glanced at McCoy, eyes widening in interest. "Not descendants, Bones?"

"At least not all of them," McCoy elaborated. "The data I've been able to gather does indicate that some of these people are descendants of original abductees. I can tell that by their age and their DNA, however, that a large number of these people are the original abductees: if that's what they are.

"Jim, I can measure their age in centuries, but they're all perfectly healthy. They show every sign of continuing that way indefinitely."

Kirk's eyes narrowed in thought. "Doctor, do you believe that this could have to do with the Earth-native plants, wildlife and soil that's here?"

"I couldn't say that without a great deal of further testing," McCoy replied with a gesture of futility.

"It has always been said that 'The serfs may belong to the Tsars, but the land belongs to the serfs'," Chekov interjected. "It's a statement of the understood, fundamental connection between the land and the peasant's soul. Peasant emigres still bring Russian soil with them, Captain."

"That may be more science than philosophy," McCoy elaborated. "It's possible that their DNA actually reacts to something in this soil." His steel blue eyes moved to the ship's Navigator and he shifted into a defiant stance before he continued. "The inhabitants of the Caucasus mountains have had a longevity that has always baffled the medical community. In the twentieth century, when life expectancy was in the eighties, the Georgians were living far beyond the middle of their second century."

"You believe that these abductees are from the country of Georgia?" Kirk asked.

"Again, I'd need more testing," the Doctor insisted to the Captain. "I do know for a fact that Chekov had a vitamin deficiency when we beamed down. I've been giving him supplemental shots. He's completely healthy now, however: and he's half Georgian."

The Captain blinked, his eyes widening. "Mr. Chekov, you're not Russian?" he asked melodramatically, stunned.

Chekov straightened indignantly. "Of course I am Russian. My country citizenship on Earth is the Russian Federation. My mother is a Great Russian."

Kirk fought off a wry grin. "As in not a good Russian or a bad Russian?"

"As in the main ethnic group in the actual country-state of Russia," the Navigator explained with put-upon patience. "Do you know how many country-states and ethnic groups make up the Russian Federation?"

"Before you start in on the extensive geography lesson," McCoy burst out irritably, "The point was that his father is Georgian. Ethnically, Chekov's half Georgia, half Great Russian."

"This wasn't a factor with the radiation sickness we had?"

"No. I checked it at the time," the Doctor insisted. "Repeatedly."

"My father's ethnic group was confidential information," the younger man muttered sullenly.

"Until it became significant to ship's business," McCoy retorted. "Keep complaining and I'll post it to every female on the ship-wide bulletin board."

"That's a threat?" the Captain asked curiously.

"I'll explain later," the Doctor muttered.

Kirk paced away slowly, his eyes examining the vegetation around him. "So we're all in the same environment, we all ate the same food, and Chekov's now healthy: but it's had no effect on either of us?"

"You've gained four pounds."

Kirk glanced back at the him sharply. "Overnight?"

McCoy glanced furtively at Chekov. "Good food," he muttered again to the Captain.

"Bones, what did the medical community on Earth discover regarding the longer lifespans of ethnic Georgians?"

"Nothing definitive," the Doctor informed him. "The studies were sporadic and the records verifying their actual lifespans were never considered reliable."

"Bones," Kirk drew out carefully. "I think we're in a biological laboratory. Tiimeron would need to recreate the environment on Earth exactly in order to pursue the type of medical testing that you're speaking about.

"Could he have found a human anti-aging factor?"

"I doubt it, seriously," McCoy drawled. "But he wouldn't be the first to try. I'll check."

The senior officer's conversation drifted past Chekov. He glanced away, back to the orchards, as he felt the blood slowly ease out of his face.

_We all ate the same food..._ Not the apple, the Navigator realized. Not the apple.

He swallowed hard. Zharpesta had given Grand Duke Ivan an apple when they had first met. He hadn't wondered _who_ had left the fruit on the window sill, just _why_.

Chekov had also never wondered _how_ Zharpesta managed to make everything she touched more beautiful. It was obvious to him now: it made sense. Making a thing healthy was the most fundamental way to make it glorious.

"What about the Caulis Virus?" Chekov blurted into the older men's conversation.

McCoy shook his head somberly. "I'm sorry, son. There is no record of these people ever encountering anything like it and none of the medical community are familiar with it. It was the first thing I checked for, Chekov. I'm afraid they have no answer for Sulu here."

_None that you know about,_ the Navigator thought with sudden fervor. _These people don't look like they're from the Caucasus Mountains,_ _this place doesn't look like Georgia, and these people aren't still alive because they have Georgian ancestry,_ Chekov's mind insisted.

The reason for their longevity lay somewhere else. And Pavel Chekov was sure he knew what it was. The rest of his report to the Captain would have to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

Chekov traveled the hedge maze easily, like a rat following the scent of a rotten piece of cheese. It was more than instinct, he knew: he was being lured. Hopelessly mired in the middle of the puzzle, the Navigator turned a corner and froze. The path was blocked by a grizzled, fierce looking peasant man that dwarfed the slight young man.

There weren't any clues to get past this man in the fairytales of the Navigator's childhood. This spirit that appeared as a wizened serf guarded the far end of the maze and you simply didn't go by him if he appeared. You didn't belong any further: you were not welcome.

"I need to pass," Chekov stated bravely.

Grey eyes regarded him softly, and an unexpected glint of amusement warmed their depths. The serf backed away and his form dissipated into the hedge without a word.

Chekov straightened his shoulders, taking back control of his resolve. The spirit was there for a reason: you didn't come to the house's mausoleum except on appropriate Feast Days when you were expected there.

His childhood in Russia had been spent in a manor house, a government grant to his parents because of their extensive work in the rural areas of the Russian Federation. Andrie had readily moved in everyone that worked for them as well and Chekov's extended 'family' had been numerous and varied.

None of them had any real connection to the once abandoned house and land however: except for the somber trust for its care that they had accepted. Chekov had never felt comfortable in a mausoleum full of ancestors that were his only by their heritage. It made his skin crawl, even when he was taught to believe humans were welcome there.

He stopped when he reached the end of the maze and stood staring at the burial grounds spread out before him. He wasn't comfortable here either, and was tempted to turn and run back through the maze.

He had been led here, however: and he knew he would never find his way out on his own. There were plenty of stories of people trapped forever in mausoleum hedgemazes.

"Pavel: you came."

"You gave me no choice," Chekov replied as he turned toward the musical voice. Soulful brown eyes came to rest on the woman's wispy form standing amongst the gravestones. The sheer fluidness of her vibrant color and shimmering skin was nearly blinding.

A sight that he'd longed for all his life, a sense of loss slowly overtook him. He could no longer find a sense of enchantment in the sight of her, in the thought of her. The magic had dropped away from her like the morning dew from a leaf.

He was growing up.

Zharpesta cooed in distress at his expressed impotence, lashes fluttering over her large almond eyes. "I can't make you do anything: none of us can. We have no power over you."

His eyes widened, their dark depths unreadable. "You offer alternatives to cooperating that are often unacceptable."

"I cannot speak for the others: _I_ only asked to be left alone," the woman hissed back, black eyes glassy as her hands gripped the stone in front of her. "It is your kind that always sought to cage me."

Chekov nodded in agreement and he paced slowly away in thought, his eyes scanning the world around them. "Zharpesta," he drew out with curiosity, its mildness feigned. "What you touch becomes beautiful because it is made healthy, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she replied simply, cocking her head to eye him with a note of surprise. "Was this so obvious?"

Chekov shrugged, thrusting his arms out to the world around them. "Here? Yes, it was." Scientists may have been able to convince him that the longevity of the humans here was due to genetics and medical advancements. Science, however, couldn't explain the flourishing gardens, orchards and fields to the Navigator who was raised around plants that still grew in the ground.

With such a finite amount of land and over-abundance of vegetation, the nutrients in the soil should have stopped producing viable crops long ago. Anything the peasants did manage to eek out of the ground wouldn't have provided them with enough nutrition to support the health they obviously exhibited.

_Famine bread..._ Chekov thought dismally. _The crops produced by such spent soil would be no better than famine bread. A touch of grain and several full measures of sawdust, a baked concoction to make you feel full while you're starving to death. _It was a recipe the people of his homeland had perfected early in their history.

Modern agricultural science had thankfully eliminated the need for such concoctions. There wasn't any signs in this area of the planet of anything that would have kept the soil producing for as long as it had, however.

Except, of course, the touch of the Firebird.

She had ceased to be a mythological creature to him. A Starfleet Officer's duties on missions like this was in large part as an anthropologist, and her elusive beauty was now only one of the traits he noted. Her possible abilities and their uses became variables in important calculations he now began to verify.

"You've kept all of this–all of them–alive and healthy," he asked again for confirmation. The mausoleum and graveyard around it were sparsely populated for a community that had existed here since the 17th century. He let a hand brush over a chiseled stone and fixed his unreadable, dark eyes on her brilliant form. Her own hands held a stone with a gentle protectiveness.

"Grand Duke Ivan," he noted, with a put-upon affect of both surprise and alarm. "He did come with you."

"Of course," she answered and shook her hair, perturbed.

He stared at the cold stone and considered what it meant. "Ivan died," he observed. His wide eyes shifted back to the shimmering skin on her face. "Have a disagreement, did you?"

"It was a riding accident," she spat back at him. "I didn't reach him in time.

Chekov felt a tingle of warning along his spine. _Not in time..._

"Do you ride horses?" she continued, ebony eyes bright and fixed on him in a taunting, amused threat.

"No," he replied blandly, giving her no satisfaction. "I'm not fond of animals that are bigger and stupider than me."

Her ebony eyes turned glassy, understanding a veiled insult well insulated in the comment. "Peasant life obviously offers challenges for you," she came back.

Chekov folded his arms across his chest and glanced away into the nearby orchards in thought."You left the apple for me, didn't you?"

"Yes. Of course."

"That was rude," he observed. "There were two of us in the room."

"McCoy could pick his own."

"It may surprise you," the Navigator said as he paced a few steps away again. "But I have managed to reach an apple or two on my own during my life."

"My touch was intended for you."

Chekov spun, fixing her with a dark look. "Why me? Why did you heal me?"

Cooing again, she made several noises of distress as she drew her delicate fingers along the top of the stone. "I miss Ivan," Zharpesta finally trilled in dismay.

"Why me?" he insisted. He knew that none of the spirits–especially Zharpesta–had any interaction with humans without ulterior motives. She wanted something from him.

He was counting on it.

Zharpesta trilled again, stretching luxuriously. With a graceful curl of her neck, the movement fluttered down in a wave over her shoulders and settled into a sensuous roll of her diminutive hips. "I told you," she cooed and fluttered her lashes over her ebony eyes. "I miss Ivan."

Chekov frowned, his wide brown eyes steady on her sinewy form. _Were these spirits the architects of human feminine seduction, or had they simply memorized the talents of those they had shared the planet with? _he wondered unhappily.

"I'm sorry for your grief, Zharpesta, but I don't see how it has anything to do with me," the Navigator lied.

"I rarely find humans that I can trust."

Chekov allowed his face to lite up with a sheepish, wry grin. There is was, then. He knew she meant human males. He also knew that for some bizarre reason, Zharpesta had obviously set her sights on possessing him.

It was clear to the young Navigator. He had seen the moon-eyed, calculating look now consuming her eyes before: usually in the gaze of girls embarrassingly too young for him to consider. Chekov sometimes believed that his wholesome good looks had forever doomed him to be the teenage crush of every one of his friends' younger sisters.

As he stared at the Firebird, he remembered that he had found that being presumed innocent did have distinct advantages. "And you think I can be trusted?" He grinned, dark eyes gleaming devilishly.

Zharpesta's shoulders fluttered in subtle triumph. "You haven't told your Captain about me."

"I will," he assured her somberly. "I did not have complete information yet."

Cooing in displeasure, she cocked her head askew and let her fingers trail through her hair. "This place offers Russia as it was meant to be. You know that."

"You'll excuse me if I take umbrage to slavery," he said, gesturing back toward the village.

"They don't consider themselves slaves, they're a community, a unit," she argued.

"They're property," he maintained. Not that it would do any good. He'd discovered females with this particular look in their eyes never heard anything that even had a touch of sense to it.

Long lashes fluttered over her brilliantly sad eyes again. "If you stayed with me, your soul will be on no ones tax records."

Chekov's eyes widened, but he forcefully fought back the smirk that threatened to erupt. "You want me to stay...with you?" he asked innocently.

"Yes," she said eagerly.

The Navigator grinned wildly and rolled his eyes outlandishly.

"This doesn't please you?"

He shrugged in futility. "I suppose I'm flattered: but I can't say I ever considered gigolo as an actual career option before."

The woman's face grew sullen, the sheen on her skin dimming in obvious disapproval. "I imagine you think that your mother would frown on such an arrangement for her son," she commented. "You're not her little boy any longer, Pavel Andrieivich: you're a grown man."

Clearing his throat, Chekov straightened and firmly ground his teeth together. Disapprove? Actually, the naughty idea would have sent his mother into throes of delighted laughter. Pavel was careful about entering into physical relationships and his mother pined about what her son was missing by exhibiting Andrie's conservative ways.

"Zharpesta," he finally said carefully when he'd got control of his quick humor. "I don't think you realize what you're asking. I wouldn't just be abandoning my true Motherland."

"Does space hold your heart that firmly?"

He shook his head slowly. It was important for Chekov to build as firm and wide a foundation as he could now. "It's not space I'm talking about. Staying here would mean turning my back on all my friends and my entire family: including my village. I'd never see any of them again and I'd be spitting on traditions you claim this place embodies.

"You know how central an person's village is to us," he elaborated. "The old internal passport system is technically illegal, but it's still an accepted tradition in rural Russia. My passport allows me to serve in Starfleet: I can't deviate from that without permission of the Village Council."

Shifting her shoulders, she tucked her hands behind her back and sauntered up to him. "That system is to ensure that you are as valued, needed, and cared about as you are to your home community. I offer more of that to you than you will ever find elsewhere."

Chekov was surprised that Zharpesta, of all people, would offer a one-sided picture of the passport system that he'd more expect to hear from a non-traditional Russian. Anyone from rural Russia would know the true purpose of the passport was to guarantee a person's happiness and self-worth. They made sure their community members didn't ever feel impotent and despondent. The Soviets had forever twisted the outside world's understanding of that.

"What do I tell them?" the Navigator asked with care as he studied her. "You've personally selected me: you get a companion, a replacement for Ivan." He shrugged then, pressing his lips together in a fine line as he said softly. "What do I get, Zharpesta?"

Startled, the woman's eyes widened and her features grew curious. "What?"

"What do I get?" he asked levelly again, smouldering dark eyes wide and depthless.

She smiled leisurely, with a note of ignorance in her eyes. "I can give a human that stays with me the gift of immortality," she answered simply.

Chekov's laugh burst out of him and he grinned purposely over-wild. He pointed at the tombstone behind her. "That doesn't seem to be a guarantee you can make, now does it?"

Shaking her head, she raised her hands in offering. "You know what we are capable of, Pavel Andrieivich. We offer you anything you want if you will stay here with me," she replied, ebony eyes shining.

Chekov could not truly find fault with her for having ulterior motives in dealing with him. He had not known what the cost would be at the time, but he had followed her summons with his own agenda firmly in mind. She had only to make the price clear.

For someone who knew about life's truths and their own insignificance in the universe, it was hardly a price at all.

"There's only one thing in this galaxy that I want."


	6. Chapter 6

"Bones," James Kirk was insisting in an age-old debate. "The Prime Directive has no bearing on this situation at all. This isn't a growing social order, it's a...petting zoo."

"You're still passing judgement on the way these people live, Jim," the Doctor responded, steel blue eyes bright. "You're holding their lives in comparison to ours: isn't that what the Prime Directive was designed to prevent?

"You can't always use semantics to get around the essence of the law," he continued. "Jim, I know that your intentions are good, but I can't agree it's right to play God."

"Human beings—sentient beings–don't belong in a zoo," the Captain maintained fiercely.

"This isn't a zoo," Chekov interjected quietly. "It's biological environment set up to maintain these people's lifestyle."

Kirk glanced at the young man sharply. "That's called a zoo, Ensign."

The three Enterprise officers stood at the enormous natural spring which was the lifeblood of the community. The miraculous rejuvenating powers of the village springs were a fundamental given to Russians: even after the accident at the Chernobyl power plant poisoned the land, the region's springs had mysteriously remained clean and untainted.

Chekov's backend rested against the short wooden wall built to shelter the sparkling, clear water and divide apart a laundry area. The Navigator reached out a hand and gently brushed it down the back of the brilliant red bird perched on the wall next to him. "Captain," he said again. "These people weren't abducted. They asked Tiimeron to bring them here."

"That was centuries ago. Mr. Chekov," Kirk observed. "These people need to understand that the course of history has changed the situation on Earth. If they want to continue to live the way they're used to, the Historic Districts in the Russian Federation will allow them to do just that.

"There's an important difference, however," the Captain insisted fiercely. "There is no slavery on Earth any longer. The Historic Districts also allow them access to twenty-third century education and medical care. You're from a Historic District yourself, Ensign.

"Tell them that we're prepared to return them to their real Motherland."

Chekov's index finger raised the bird's head up and he stared at her somberly, his chest heavy. The words sat like a rock in his mind. Their Motherland. Their Motherland...

"I have explained these things to them, as you ordered, Sir. They want to stay," he said quietly.

Kirk sighed, hazel eyes intently fixed on the Navigator. "Ensign," he said gently. "Earth is their home."

"It's your home too," Chekov pointed out levelly. "Just as it's the home of many Starfleet personnel and various colonists spread throughout our galaxy. Free people have the right to choose where they want to live."

"They do," the Captain agreed, pacing a few steps away before turning back to him. "In order to exercise choice, you have to know what the options offer, Chekov. I don't think they understand what Earth has to offer them in the twenty-third century."

Chekov stiffened, carefully raising his wide, soulful eyes to meet his Captain's gaze. There was a maturity in their smouldering depths that was far beyond the young man's years. It unnerved Kirk on the rare occasions he'd glimpsed it there. "Captain," the Navigator stated. "It's not about what we can offer them on Earth. It's about what we can't offer them."

Penetrating hazel eyes held the younger man frozen. "Explain," Kirk ordered.

"Captain," Chekov said evenly, the tension in his voice mirrored in the subtle lines that formed around his eyes. "This place wasn't just set up for the benefit of the peasants here."

"No," McCoy agreed broadly. "The sheep and cows needed a place to stay, too."

"Bones," the Captain warned.

The Doctor folded his arms across his chest and he rolled his eyes.

"Sir," the Navigator continued. "From my research here, I have discovered that a race of shape-shifters evolved alongside the humans on Earth. It was these beings that gave inspiration for the oral tradition of fairy tales that have been passed down for generations in Russia. Tiimeron built this place for them and the peasants traveled here afterward: following what we knew in Russia as spirits."

"Ensign," McCoy rasped. "You're saying that an entire race of beings lived with humans on Earth and we never noticed?"

"We noticed: we never had proof," Chekov said patiently. "That's what keeps crypto-zoologists in business."

"Crypto-what?"

"Crypto-zoology," the Navigator repeated. "The scientific investigation of supposedly mythological creatures."

The Doctor dropped his arms to his sides abruptly. "Now you're making that up!"

"No," the Captain interjected. "I've heard of the field, Bones."

"Wait a minute, Jim," McCoy rasped. "You're telling me there are people who make their living looking for mermaids and faeries?"

"Yes," the Navigator insisted. "Just as they once searched for proof of the dinosaur, the Giant Squid, the Giant Panda and the Mountain Gorilla."

"Bones," Kirk interrupted again, touching his friend in a calming gesture. "Am I to understand that you've seen these spirits here, Ensign?" he said to Chekov.

"Several of them, Sir," the young man confirmed and dropped his hand away from the bird perched next to him. The animal's form shimmered and wavered: the willowy woman settling on the top of the wall in its place. Her huge, black eyes regarded the Captain warily.

"Captain James Kirk," the Navigator said formally. "This is Zharpesta: the Firebird," he added in English. "She and the others of her race won't leave this planet. As long as they won't leave, neither will the humans."

The starship captain bowed his head eloquently. "I'm honored, Ma'am. I'm afraid humans have outgrown the need to worship such beings as yourself, however," he said, hazel eyes shining intently. 'We now know you are simply another of this galaxy's varied inhabitants: no better and no less than any other.

"I understand why you may want to stay, that's your choice. There's no reason for the humans to stay here, however."

"Would it have hurt, I wonder, if we'd gathered just a few laurel leaves?" the Navigator asked quietly.

"What?" McCoy demanded irritably.

"Laurel leaves. Would it have hurt, I wonder, if we'd gathered just a few laurel leaves?" Chekov repeated. "That's what the Captain asked after we drove Apollo away."

Kirk straightened, taking in a careful breath. "No matter how we may long for simpler times, Chekov, worship of beings simply because they are different diminishes us as a people."

"Yes, Sir, it does," the younger man agreed. "We never worshiped these people, however, Captain. We lived in harmony with them: both races respecting each other's unique needs. The Earth is as much their home as it is the humans.

"Neither of them will ever leave here to return to Earth," Chekov said, and he heard his voice catch as he forced out the dreaded words. "And neither will I."

Kirk stared at him in stunned silence. Finally, he shook his head. "Pavel, I know how much your homeland's history means to you, but this is preposterous."

"I'm staying," the Navigator repeated as he felt the blood drain from his face, despite fiercely willing it not to do so.

"You'll be AWOL, Ensign," the Captain reminded him gently. "Commissioned officers commit themselves to the service for three years in repayment for an Academy education. You can visit on leave until the time you're free to make that decision."

"No, Sir," Chekov bit out coldly. "I'm staying now."

"Pavel, if I don't send Security to retrieve you," Kirk tried to intone reasonably, "than Starfleet will."

"They will, Sir," the Navigator agreed, "If you report me as AWOL.

"Jim," he continued in uncharacteristic familiarity. Subdued, with dark eyes painfully depthless, he said: "They made me an offer I can't refuse. I'm convinced you'll understand."

Kirk paced several steps closer to the Ensign. "You're young, but you're not naive. What did they offer you, Chekov?"

The young man smiled with innocent warmth. "Captain, the Firebird is going to cure Sulu."

"And in return you're going to stay here?" the Captain deduced immediately.

"I know you understand," the Navigator insisted. "Captain, we may not have all the information, but we know. The officers and crew see what goes on. When Mr. Spock was sick, you brought him to Vulcan against Starfleet orders. He came back well.

"You know there are things more important than any individual."

Kirk straightened slowly. He studied the younger man with opaque hazel eyes. He took another step toward his Navigator, raising his hands in a gesture of empathy.

"I've known others in your position, Chekov," he explained quietly. "You have as much right to the choice as anyone else...only you don't seem happy about it."

Chekov's smile saddened, his dark eyes growing distant. "Captain, my friends and I used to love debating whether we were old enough to stop listening for the chicken bones on Baba Yaga's house and start worrying about meeting Rushlaka.

"Every time we move another creature into the realm of zoology, each step of progress humanity makes, a piece of the Earth's magic is lost forever.

"We killed the Man In The Moon, turned the moon from cheese to rock, chased away the little green Martians.

He shrugged deeply. "I just lost all the Russian spirits. Sir, the sled can be heavy at times."


	7. Chapter 7

Sulu winced painfully, shifting as Chekov readjusted the pillow behind his back.

"Better?"

The Helmsman nodded, letting the air seep out of his chest slowly. "I admit it, the cherry orchard looks like areas of Earth: but honestly, Pavel, my bed was more comfortable than this tree."

"It even smells like Russia," Chekov insisted eagerly.

"Washington, D.C. smells like Russia when the cherry trees are in blossom. So does Japan. "

"The trees aren't in blossom," the Navigator corrected. "See? The fruit's ripe."

"Chekov," Sulu warned as he let his eyes fall closed heavily. "This doesn't count as bringing me home.

"I can't get warm anymore," he added in a thin voice. "I'm so cold inside," he divulged. A now familiar shudder deep in his very cells wracked his body. "Nothing helps anymore."

After a moment, Sulu opened his eyes and glared at the Navigator. He couldn't say why he knew to do this. Perhaps as a pilot, he felt the minute difference in temperature and air pressure. More likely, as a friend he simply knew what to expect of the younger man.

Chastised by the glare, Chekov stopped and put down the hand he'd been reaching out toward his friend with.

"We're a fine pair of friends," Sulu said tiredly. "You can't resist grabbing everyone and hugging them and I can't stand touchy-feely people."

"Stop it," the younger man chided his friend. "You're babbling, Sulu."

"It's just that I'm so..."

"Japanese. I'm Russian, you're Japanese-American," Chekov asserted simplistically. "Your language has no word for kiss, mine has no word for privacy."

Dying may be well worth never having to hear that analogy again. "Even so..." Sulu reflected, but let the thought trail off into weary silence.

The Navigator made a sour face. "Sulu, you don't even want your girlfriends to show affection in public. I'm just your brother: you'd drop dead if I ever hugged you in front of the Captain!"

Sulu chuckled, despite himself. The involuntary movement that came with it caused him to wince. "I would," he admitted. "I'm forced to confess that I am obviously not the only one who's had to make adjustments in this friendship."

"We're different, that's what makes it work," Chekov observed.

"I suppose." The Helmsman was too weary to argue. "You'll have to find another brother now, Pavel."

The Navigator shrugged dismissibly. "I never had a real brother, but I can't imagine ever finding someone else who I can talk to about anything."

"Ear plugs," Sulu advised. "That's the secret: get him a good pair of earplugs." The Helmsman winced as another chuckle took over his body.

"Hikaru," Chekov said then, his eyes turning to liquid chocolate. "I found her. I found her, Hikaru."

"Again?" Sulu asked with amusement pulling at the corners of his parched lips. "Found the woman of your dreams again, have you?" The older man made a show of rolling his clouded eyes melodramatically. "Pavel Andrievich, you fall in love as easily as most people sneeze," he said tiredly. "If you'd just lighten up you could have a fling every so often like a normal person. It's much less exhausting."

"No..." Chekov started to protest, but Sulu stopped him with a hand.

The Helmsman's breathing was shallow and thready, but he managed a thick Slavic accent anyway: "This time it's different!"

The Navigator flushed, but continued. "Do you remember Zharpesta?"

"The Firebird?" Sulu asked. "Of course I remember her: it's your favorite story. You've even dragged me around Russia looking for her."

"Well, I found her. She's here."

The older man smiled weakly and pushed himself up further. "Zharpesta?" he asked incredulously. "You found the Firebird out here in the middle of nowhere? My impaired brain wonders about your grasp on reality, Pavel Andrieivich."

"Look," Chekov instructed, indicating with a glance the branches of the tree spread out above them.

The Helmsman made an incongruous noise of derision, wincing as he shifted position to crane his neck around and peer into the leafy canopy. A frown furrowed its way out from his eyes and they darted from the tree's branches to his friend and back again. "It's a bird," he pronounced wearily. "A big red and gold bird with a peacock's tail."

Sulu settled back against the tree again, sighing heavily. "Chekov, the fact that it's red and likes cherries does not make it the Firebird. We're not on the right planet: not even in the right sector of the galaxy. Spock would be sorely disappointed in the logic of your reasoning."

"Sulu, it is Zharpesta."

"You are a strange fellow, Pasha."

"Hikaru, I want you to do something for me."

"Be your best man?" The older man smirked weakly. "We've talked about traditional Russian weddings before, Chekov. Why would you think there's a force in this universe that can make me give you a bath–for any reason?"

"I'm not marrying her," the Navigator retorted irritably.

"Good God, alert the Bishop. You'll be living in sin. Although, she's not human. Is there an addendum to the Orthodox Bible that addresses this?"

Chekov straightened perceptively, staring at his friend sullenly. "I'm never disrespectful to your culture and beliefs."

Sitting forward painfully, the older man pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. "No, you aren't: not seriously. I'm sorry." His dark eyes held his friend's gaze. Although prone to wild, instant crushes, Chekov somehow always resisted irrational behavior. Even when he was impulsive his actions were methodical. "Pavel, what the hell are you up to now?"

They knew each other too well, Chekov thought. Truthfully, it would have been easier if they were not such close friends. He could have been spared the explanation altogether. He could have just disappeared without telling anyone why. He could have been another just another mystery: a footnote in the history of spaceflight.

The Navigator knew he owed Sulu more than that, even if it was going to lead to a fight. The older man may have claimed that Chekov had the monopoly on stubborness, but it was only because Sulu had first hand knowledge of the blinding emotion himself. It wasn't going to be easy to get Sulu to back down.

Indeed, they were a fine pair of friends. "Do this for me, Hikaru," the Navigator asked as held out a whisper thin, leather-covered booklet to Sulu. "I need you to give this to my Village Council the next time you make planet-fall on Earth."

Sulu eyed the booklet without touching it, as though he would taint it. "Pavel, I know that if you want to change your passport, you need to go before the Council yourself and talk to them."

Silence between them was never painful. It was now.

"I'm not going back, Hikaru," Chekov finally said. "I'm staying here. I need you to explain this to them and make them understand. I hope you can return it to me someday with their approval."

The Helmsman blinked sharply, color filling his transparent cheeks. "This planet has affected your mind, Pavel Andrieivich," he rasped bluntly. "You know you have to keep that with you and I'm going back to Earth in a coffin. I won't be returning here."

Chekov did take hold of Sulu's hand then and squeezed it. "Hikaru," he insisted. "I didn't bring you down here to die. I brought you here to be healed: you're going to be fine."

Sulu drew a ragged breath in wearily and pulled his hand away uncomfortably. "We all know my body's been too decimated by the virus, even if McCoy found a cure."

"You do know the story of Zharpesta, don't you?" Chekov pressed.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course," the Helmsman said wearily as he leaned himself back against the tree. "The Firebird flies across Russia making everything she touches beautiful. Pavel, please don't bother me now with nonsense."

"Did you ever wonder how she makes things beautiful?"

Sulu's eyes closed. He was silent so long, the younger man almost spoke. "Can't say the question ever crossed my mind," he finally said.

"Zharpesta makes things beautiful by making them healthy," Chekov informed him.

"Downright accommodating of her."

"I'm being serious. She's going to heal you, Hikaru."

"Sorry," the older man commented. "I've checked my schedule and I simply haven't the time today."

"Will you stop treating me like a two year old?" the Navigator demanded. "I don't think you understand what I'm saying."

"I understand," Sulu retorted, opening his eyes to glare at his friend. He pushed himself upright, throwing himself into a fit of convulsive coughs. "Zharpesta is going to heal me and you're going to stay here in repayment."

"Yes," Chekov confirmed, a note of surprise in his tone at how quickly his friend sized up the situation.

"I won't let you do that," the Helmsman wheezed fiercely.

"You don't have a choice!"

"Oh, yes I do, Pavel Andrieivich. If you think I'm going to let you pine away here while I go about my business, your brains have been cooked from spending too much time in the oven!"

Chekov scowled formidably. "Stop trying to sound Russian!"

"After you stop trying to be so lofty and noble on my account. You've got yourself on a pedestal so high above the rest of us, I'm surprised you can breathe in the atmosphere up there. You're a human being: there aren't any knights on white horses and King Arthur wasn't real."

"There is archeological proof that a King named Arthur united the warring kingdoms of Briton during the iron age," the Navigator retorted indignantly.

The fact that Arthur wasn't credited with ruling Russia at some point in time spoke to how upset Chekov actually was. "But Mallory made up the Knights of the Round Table and the French threw in Lancelot for good measure," Sulu insisted artfully.

The Navigator blinked quickly in surprise.

"I do sometimes listen to your babbling," the older man admitted. "Even I get that bored at times."

Chekov let himself sit back, subdued. Sometimes Sulu's words to the Navigator were more effective than a slap across the face.

The Helmsman continued. "The point is that even Kirk knows principles are only there as a guide. Ease up on yourself: the knights weren't real because no one could live up to that code."

"Zharpesta's going to heal you and I'm going to stay," Chekov insisted fiercely without room for debate in his tone.

Sulu sat staring at his friend, each breath drawn into his lungs rattling his chest and shuddering through his body. He knew from experience that trying to convince Chekov that other motivators beside nobility were to be considered would only reinforce the younger man's belief that they were not. Sulu tried another tack. "This will kill your father, Pavel Andrieivich," he pronounced.

"It's not as though he can't visit," Chekov said in a pinched voice, stumbling to his feet and averting his eyes.

"Halfway across the galaxy? Pavel, he gets space sick going to the moon!"

"That's just one of his stories," the Navigator retorted, glancing sharply back at the Helmsman. "He's never even been out of Earth's atmosphere.

"I want to do this, Hikaru."

"You don't get everything you want in life, Pavel. Besides, if you actually wanted to live like a peasant, you would have stayed on Earth. I'm not letting you give up your career, your family–your life–for me."

Chekov stood, arms clenched across his chest as he sullenly listened to the Helmsman speak. When the man finished, he remained staring into the non-distinct distance. "I'm not giving up anything, Koshka," the Navigator finally said quietly, using the most familiar nickname he could find for his friend. He turned soulful, and depthless, dark eyes on his friend. "I'm just carrying the sled."

The Helmsman sighed heavily and eyed the younger man suspiciously. "What?"

"In Russia, it is said that if you wish to go sledding, you'd best be prepared to carry the sled."

Sulu growled low in his throat. "Another damn Russian proverb."

"Earth's proverbs contain the truths of the universe," Chekov maintained. "If you want friendship, you better be prepared to be a friend."

"No one could claim that you're not a good person, a good friend, Malyenki. What kind of friend would I be if I let you imprison yourself for me? I'm not going to let you do this."

Chekov shook his head, arms still clasped against his chest. "It's not your choice," he insisted. "It's mine and she is going to heal you."

"I won't let her," Sulu retorted with a strength in his voice that he didn't feel. A brilliant crimson feather floated down in front of him as he said it, the edges dripping with molten gold, and he caught it instinctively.

Sulu gasped in pain, his fingers clutching the feather reflexively as his body seized up and folded in on itself.

"Oh, God!" he gasped. "Oh, God..."

Chekov was on the ground next to him instantly, clutching the convulsing man in an effort to support his flailing body. "Koshka!"

"Don't call me that!" The Helmsman managed to rasp angrily. His dark eyes filled with fear as his body shuddered violently.

"You didn't say it would hurt!" The Navigator snarled, glaring up into leaves of the tree, but found them empty.

"You didn't ask."

"You bitch!" Chekov shot back at the woman now standing behind him.

"Much of his body needed repair at the cellular level," her soft, cooing voice attempted to soothe him from behind. "The pain will pass."

Sulu let out a last, shuddering breath as his body stilled.

"Koshka?"

The Helmsman sat silently for a moment, eyes closed, as he waited for his rapid breathing and pulse to quiet. "Pavel Andrieivich," he finally said breathlessly. "You call me that again and I'll rip you limb from limb."

"You're better!" Chekov declared, jerking back and grinning wildly. "You're better, Sulu!"

"Yes," the older man agreed, nodding. His face was fleshed out and washed in color that it had long been lacking. "I feel like I am. Now let go of me," Sulu added, scowling and peeling away his friend's arms distastefully.

"I won't be recommending we stop looking for an alternate cure," the Helmsman observed as he climbed stiffly to his feet. He wobbled a moment. It had been a long time since he had been vertical.

He blindly swatted away Chekov's immediate attempt to steady him. "I'm fine."

The strange words the Helmsman said made Chekov straighten and their dark eyes met.

"Now," the older man elucidated with a weak smile. "I'm fine now."

Chekov nodded, clasping his hands behind his back sedately. "I told you that Zharpesta would heal you," he said triumphantly.

Sulu inclined his own head just enough to show agreement, but his dark eyes were on the woman standing in the orchard some distance behind Chekov. He made a significant gesture of touching his fingertips to the soft edges of the feather still in his hand.

"I know the stories about you," he said, loud enough for her to hear. "I can now make you show up just by waving this feather. "

"Sulu!" Chekov warned, horror in his voice.

The Helmsman glanced at his friend only long enough to acknowledge him. He moved past the younger man dismissively. "Zharpesta, I can technically keep you running back and forth constantly. Let's just cut to the chase: you leave Chekov where he is and I won't bother you."

"You can't force me to appear."

"You have to come when I call you with the feather," he charged.

Curiosity and amusement danced across her ebony eyes. "I have to do nothing. That was simply an agreement I had with Ivan."

"Changing the story, aren't you?" Sulu challenged.

She smiled condescendingly in return. "Those are human stories. I see no reason to adapt my life to the creations of your imaginations."

"Sulu!" Chekov protested in horror again. "Stop it! Don't argue with her!"

"Why?" Sulu demanded, glancing back at him. "What's she going to do, make me sick again?

"You can't do that, can you?" he taunted as he paced up to her threateningly. "You can't go backwards. I'm healed and there's nothing you can do about it. You can't even make Chekov stay."

The Navigator, who had been scrambling up beside his friend, froze in his tracks. "Mr. Sulu!" he protested formally. "I have told her I would. I gave her my word."

"So break your word," Sulu shrugged simply, turning eyes dancing devilishly back toward her. "If she has a taste for martyrs, I'm sure she can find another somewhere else. Maybe she could even find a willing one next time.

"Hell," Sulu continued unkindly. "Just take out an ad in Russia: you'll have lines of men. Chekov's got better things to do. His Village Council will never think this is the best use of his talents.

"And they'll come after him: I'd rather deal with Starfleet."

She moved toward him slowly, intrigued. "Ivan's horse never was white," the Firebird observed cryptically.

"What does that mean?" Chekov demanded, irritation lacing his words and shining in his eyes.

Sulu smiled at her and she tipped her head at him.

"What does that mean?" the Navigator repeated.

"Your friend is right. Ivan got what he was looking for by staying with me: he gave up nothing. I've no taste for looking into the eyes of a martyr for an eternity."

"You...don't want me to stay anymore?" Chekov asked tentatively.

She shook out her hair, trilling in response. "No."

"Now say thank-you and shut up!" Sulu ordered, grabbing the younger man's arm forcefully. He backed away and pulled the Navigator with him.

"Hikaru."

He stopped, his fingers tightening and biting into the flesh of his friend's arm. "What?" he asked uneasily.

"Why does Pavel Andrieivich call you 'Koshka'?"

The Helmsman straightened, shifting his jaw as he regarded her thoughtfully. "You don't leave here, do you? Don't go back there?"

Lashes fluttering over her ebony eyes again, amusement spread over her lips. "I'm not seen there," she answered lightly.

Chekov stepped up beside him, eyes widening, but Sulu pushed him back before he could say anything.

"Chekov's father told Pavel he couldn't bring home a kitten. When he met me, Andrie said he didn't realize that Pavel would drag home stray people instead. So now.." he hesitated, shuddering and casting a glare at the Navigator. "Everyone in the family calls me 'Koshka'."

Her musical laughter filled the air as her form wavering and she took to the sky.

"You said if I ever told anyone that people call you 'Kitten' you'd kill me!" Chekov protested: his eyes wild with indignation.

"You didn't just save my life."

"Yes, I did!"

"She didn't have to."

"Neither did I," Chekov insisted hotly.

The Helmsman grinned. "Yes, you did. What would you do without me?

"I'd get to eat some of the chocolate my mother sends me," the younger man pronounced sullenly.

Sulu threw his hands up, striding off toward the village. "Then you'd get fat and what would McCoy do for entertainment? It's all a terrible mess, Chekov."

"Give me the feather!" the younger man demanded suddenly.

Slowing, the Helmsman held it out to him, then jerked it away when Chekov grabbed for it. He stumbled and fell face-first into the black earth of Mother Russia as Sulu ran away, laughing.

"I'm telling Uhura!" Chekov declared, scrambling to his feet and running to catch up with the Helmsman.

"Than I will kill you. More chocolate for me."


End file.
